"Although your descendants have only a scrap of meat thrown on the grass, which not even the crows will eat; although your descendants have only a scrap of fat, which not even the dogs will eat; even then my family will serve you. Never will we raise the banner of another to sit upon the throne."

"As this is heard by the khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, so it is heard by Teylas," Yamun murmured in response. His body sank slightly as he recited the words. "Now, dear Bayalun, you're tired. This audience is over."

Burning with humiliation, the khadun struggled from the floor, pushing herself up with her staff. Eschewing the traditional formalities of departing, she barged from the yurt, driving aside the guards with a few solid whacks of her stout wooden shaft.

"Chanar, you will stay. I have questions for you," the khahan ordered when the general stood to go. Chanar froze, briefly panicked, and then slowly sat back down. He looked around, wondering if the audience was about to turn into some sort of trap.

Yamun deliberately let Chanar sit and wait. Just as Koja decided that the khahan had passed out inside his armor, Yamun spoke. "General Chanar, my anda, why aren't you in Semphar advising Hubadai?" He let his voice trail away at the end.

"I was ill and could not travel," Chanar answered stiffly. He placed his hands very carefully in front of him. "I sent messengers telling you of my sickness."

"You could've ridden in a cart, or were you too sick to travel at all?" Yamun asked.

"I am not an old man—" Chanar stopped suddenly and gave a quick glance to Goyuk. The khan's normally pleasant smile was clouded and grim. "I am not a woman," Chanar began again, "who cannot ride. Valiant men do not follow oxen to the battle. I could not fight from a wagon."

"It is true a warrior should ride into battle," Yamun agreed. "I'm pleased to see that you're feeling much better. Now that you are well, why have you come here?"

Wary of the khahan's maneuvering, the general picked his words carefully. He looked at the floor in mock humility.

"The khadun suspected an evil fate had struck you and came to learn the truth. I could not allow the khadun to travel without a proper guard."

Metal scraped wood as the khahan shifted in his seat. "So, you came for the sake of my mother. Learn this, khans," Yamun said louder, addressing Goyuk and Jad. "General Chanar has shown us the proper thing to do. It is true I have chosen two worthy andas, the warrior and the lama. Let us drink to their health."

The kumiss was drunk and the toasts were made. Throughout the salutes, Koja tried to stay quiet and avoid Chanar's attention. There could be no misreading the angry looks the general gave him over each ladleful of fermented milk. Koja could also see that Yamun was weakening, the ladle shaking a little more each time the khahan raised it to his lips.

"Yamun," the priest finally called out, "Chanar is surely tired from today's traveling. However, he is too noble to complain, so let me speak for him and ask that this audience end."

The khahan turned toward Koja, about to lash out at the priest for such impudence, when he suddenly saw the wisdom of the lama's words. Turning back to Chanar, he held one hand up to send the servants back to their places. "My anda, Koja, is wise. I've kept you too long, Chanar Ong Kho. This audience is over now, and you may leave."

The warlord sat gaping, then, with a crash, hurled the ladle across the yurt, spraying kumiss over the rugs. "He does not speak for me! I need no one to speak for me. I am your anda!" he shouted. Not waiting for a reply, Chanar stormed out of the yurt, savagely shoving the guards at the door out of his way.

The door flap had barely been tied shut when Yamun toppled off the throne. Arms weakly flailing, he grabbed at the screen only to succeed in pulling it over with him. The khahan tumbled from the dais in a crash of metal and cracking wood. The gleaming brass helmet popped off his head and bounced across the floor. Koja sprang to his feet, hastening to the side of the stricken khahan. Quickly, he examined the fallen leader.

"He lives, thankfulness be to Furo, but he needs rest," the priest announced as he tugged off Yamun's armor. "Help me get him to bed."

"You shouldn't have put him in that heavy armor," the prince snapped as he hoisted the khahan to his feet, half-dragging him to his bed.

"The khahan insisted on it. I did not want it," Koja shot back, trying to keep his temper under control.

Jad, too, bit back his words. "That would be like father," he conceded.

"He is strong-willed," Koja noted as they laid Yamun's unconscious body on the bed. Goyuk stood near the door, making sure they were not interrupted.

"More than you know, lama," Jad agreed. He looked Koja in the eye. "I was wrong to accuse you." Together, the pair finished making the khahan comfortable. When they were done, Jad called Goyuk from the door.

"Wise advisors," he began, nodding to both Goyuk and Koja, "Bayalun knows our tricks. What do we do now?"

* * * * *

"He knows about you!" Chanar snapped hysterically, his composure completely shattered. He looked at Mother Bayalun, sitting opposite him, his eyes flashing with panic and rage.

"He suspects, dear Chanar. If he could prove anything, we would be dead by now," the matronly Bayalun corrected. Her voice was low and ripplingly musical. She took the general's hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

They sat alone in a small yurt she had appropriated from one of the commanders of Yamun's bodyguard. Influential and important though the Kashik khans might be, not even they dared refuse the illustrious second empress. It was a simple matter for her to find a tent to her liking and then persuade its owner to vacate. Indeed, the khan had been most willing; he believed the khahan dead, making this a good time to be friendly and helpful to the khadun.

Still, the usurped accommodations were far from lavish. The tent was small and cramped, divided into two sections. Bayalun and Chanar sat in a small reception area. A pair of small wooden chests covered with rugs served as chairs. The khadun had disdained these, choosing instead to sit on the floor next to the oil lamp, which provided a feeble glow. A fine bow of antler horn and lacquered wood, and a quiver of red leather hung on the wall behind one seat, marking it as the master's spot. A suit of iridescent armor, carefully tended and decorated—perhaps the khan's finest possession—hung on a stand nearby. Weapons, helmets, shields, buckets, and utensils decorated the rest of the wall space.

A folding wooden screen separated the other half of the yurt from the reception area. On the other side of the screen was the private area—a small collapsible bed with a carved and inlaid headboard, and chests of clothing and war booty.

"How long before his suspicion gives way to certainty?" the general countered, slowly pulling his hand free from Bayalun's. He closed his eyes and rubbed hard at his temples, struggling to regain control of his emotions. Blood throbbed through the veins of his forehead and the shaven top of his head. His shoulders ached from the tension. "Why can't we just raise our standard and attack him now—just get it over with? We should defeat him in battle, not with a game of words."

"Patience, my bold warrior," Bayalun gently urged. She smiled warmly. His sudden display of temper threatened all her plans and yet fascinated her. "Forgive me. You are a man of deeds, and I have forgotten this. Blood and the sword are meat for you, not politics and words. Patience. There will be battles, I'm sure, but not yet." Chanar could not help but notice the change in her tone.

The khadun moved closer to Chanar. It was important now, more than ever, that the general do nothing rash, that he be placated. She needed to control him, but let him think he was in command.